Dark Times Saga
by Isis-Lament
Summary: Plutark has a dangerous new weapon! yay, finally another update! Change slowly befalls one of the Biker Mice. Carbine and her troops fall into further danger. Throttle gets a shower scene! PLEASE R&R!
1. Prologue: Project Venom

Dark Times - Saga: Part 1   
  
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own any intellectual property taken from "Biker Mice from Mars" the television series. This story is NOT for profit. The story belongs to the author, but it may be referenced for more NON profit usage.   
  


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**Dark Times - Saga**   
  
The Biker Mice's lives are threatened when Plutark tests it's latest weapon, ready to defeat Mars once and for all.  
  
**PART 1 : Prologue: Project Venom**  
  
And so the story begins...  
  


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Darkness. 

A cold, draft drifted through the sombre dungeon, weaving through the many bars of empty cells, wickedly chilling the lone, weak and shivering occupant to the bone. She sat starring into open space, her tired eyes seeing nothing. A fit of weak coughing brought her out of her self-pitying daze, her gaunt body convulsing in rhythm to her hacking. She gasped for breath, suppressing her coughs and panting weakly, she dropped her head into her hands and moaned. Her sorrowful lament echoed softly in the empty, cold room. The edges of that icy, rectangular stone bed dug into her thin, furry, brown legs, painfully jabbing a few protruding bones. She was a curled figure, hopelessly lost and dying, shoulders shaking painfully as she sobbed weakly.

Sudden silence reigned the dungeon. She straightened her back, her ruby eyes still wet with tears, yet now calm with resolve. She stood up briskly, immediately regretting her swift actions when patches of her world began to black out. She took a moment to let the black blotches clear from her vision, then started taking small, unsteady steps toward the middle of the room. She lowered herself to her knees, and stared at it; the coiled rope resting on the cement floor. She no longer cared why the rope lay there, she had let all her anger go. She had given up. Nothing mattered anymore. She picked up the rope, and proceeded to slowly tie a complicated martian knot. _No more,_ she thought bitterly, _no more pain, no more sorrow, no more crying, no more sleepless nights, no more... anything..._ she smiled eerily. _No more life, no more painful breaths, no more dark void consuming my soul, no more anything!_ For the first time in months, she felt a little happy. These thoughts were the only thing that brought joy to her life. Her smile grew, adding to the already strange and horrible vibes growing within the room. 

She stood up, her task complete, and dragged the only other piece of furniture in her cell, a wooden stool, to one of her cell's caged walls. She stood tall on the stool, reaching up for a horizontal bar, and looped the rope around it a few times. After tying one end of rope securely around the bar, she slipped the loop at the other end around her neck, flipping her dirty mane of tangled, thick brown hair out of the way. 

"No more," she uttered softly. She took a deep breath, then kicked the stool away from under her feet . . .

  
  


Miles above the cold, underground dungeon, in a large comfortable office, sat a mad scientist staring at his computer terminal's monitor. To his sadistic delight, he watched test subject #30-A of the Venom Project hanging in her prison cell, twitching and convulsing as she ended her life. His fingers rapidly typed a few commands on his touch-pad keyboard, and the camera zoomed into the Martian face. Her ears were flailing and her antennas were shaking horribly, but her face displayed no signs of fear or regret. She had the faint ghost of a smile, it was stretched with pain, but it was unmistakably a smile. Finally, her eyes glazed over and her body hung limp, the corners of her mouth still raised slightly.

The scrawny scientist stood up, walked over to a cupboard, and removed a beautifully crafted bottle, garnished with a complex gold trim of spiraling lines. Inside the clear, glass bottle lay a glowing red liquid. He held the bottle up, giving it an appraising look, then removed it's golden cork with an impressive looking high-tech bottle opener (his own creation of course). He poured a generous amount of this sweet smelling liquor into a beautiful, red crystal glass, then raised his drink high above his overly big, bulging head. 

"I'd like to make a toast to myself," He chuckled, "To success! And yours truly!" He took a gulp of the glowing liquid, his tense body relaxing immediately.

He stepped back to his computer terminal and quickly typed with one hand until his screen suddenly displayed the interior of a luxurious office. A large, fat, green scaly head stepped into view and spoke, "Ah, Dr. Grunt," The humanoid fish voiced warmly with a greedy look of anticipation, "I take it by the look on your face that you bring me good news!" His scaly eyebrow raised and his smile grew as his face urged the scientist to speak.

"Yes, Lord Camembert the lab testing phase of Project Venom is complete. Phase One has been a complete success," the scientist said proudly.

"Excellent! Let us proceed to Phase Two... after a well warranted celebration, of course..." The plutarkian lord said while glancing at the scientist's glass.

"Yes my lordship, enjoy the rest of your evening," Dr. Grunt replied. 

Lord Camembert nodded his head, then ended the transmission. 

Dr. Grunt gulped down more of his drink, then fired up another video transmission.

"Brother? Hello?? Karbunkle?!?" Dr Grunt said impatiently. A large, white laboratory filled with many scary robotic arms and various machines of all sizes popped into view on the monitor, along with another scientist who could almost have been Dr. Grunt's twin.They had the same beady little eyes, same bulky head, and same pointy nose and chin.

"Grunt! How are things on Plutark, brother? I haven't heard from you recently, " Dr. Karbunkle rambled on to his older brother, genuinely happy to see his face.

"Everything is fine, Karbunkle. And I apologize for the lack of correspondence recently, I have been pre-occupied with Project Venom..." Grunt replied sheepishly.

"Ah yes, and how is our beloved project?" Karbunkle asked with interest.

"Actually, it is the reason why I am calling. Thanks to both of our efforts, Phase One has been successfully completed... hehehehe," he giggled as the effects of his drink raised his endorphin levels, creating a feeling of pure ecstasy.

"....Brother, there's something different about you..... IS THAT TOP QUALITY AELAGORIAN RED CHAMPAGNE?!?" Karbunkle gasped excitedly.

"Yes," Grunt responded, "That pleasure planet sure knows how to _*hick*_ make a drrrrink!" He grinned foolishly and leaned closer to the monitor, "Care to join me?" he was already acquiring a hint of a slur.

Karbunkle smiled from ear to ear, then he and his laboratory crackled off of Dr. Grunt's monitor. Within seconds he heard a whirring sound from his transporter, and with a bright flash Dr. Karbunkle suddenly appeared in his room. Grunt handed him a newly poured drink, then refilled his own glass. They sipped eagerly, admiring their glasses appreciatively.

"So... how's our creation at work?" Karbunkle asked, referring to Project Venom.

"Brother, it's even better than we had hoped!" Grunt cried happily. picked up a box from his desk and handed it to Karbunkle. "Here, a gift for you and your employer."

Dr. Karbunkle eagerly yet carefully opened the hinged box. The insides consisted mostly of cushions designed to protect the delicate treasure inside. There it lay in the center, an incredibly small vile of gray liquid "This is...."

"Project Venom," Dr. Grunt slurred, feeling tipsy at this point. "The project is ready for field trial. You hold enough for one Martian, it is the most we can spare for planet earth. Most of the field trial is taking place on Mars, for obvious reasons. Since you played a part with Project Venom's original creation, I convinced Lord Camembert that you deserved it..."

"Oh, this is wonderful, Grunt, it will be put to good use!"

Grunt smiled, put an arm around his brother and said confidently, "I thought you could use it. I am tired of hearing you complain about that never ending rodent infestation back on Earth. Besides, I believe Limburger will be most pleased..."

Karbunkle smiled wickedly, "He will be most pleased," he gazed proudly at the vile, "Very pleased, and very rewarding."

  


"KARBUNKLE!!!!" The mad doctor cringed at the Plutarkian's booming voice as he stumbled from the transporter and into his laboratory. He was so drunk, he didn't see where he was heading and landed into the hands of a very surprised Lawrence Limburger.

"Limmmmburrrger!" He slurred affectionately, as he hung onto his boss, "My good friend! I'vvve allllways... wanted to _*hick*_ to telllll yyyyou...."

A disgusted Limburger shoved the drunk scientist away, brushing off imaginary filth from his purple suit, and removing his human mask as if it was contaminated. "Bad Karbunkle! Pull yourself together, man, I demand you tell me where you have been during office hours!"

"I have a vile of Project Venom," Karbunkle sputtered quickly, just barely making any sense. This had the desired effects on Limburger, he instantly lost all anger, suddenly very pleased with this deranged scientist.

"Project Venom?" the Plutarkian whispered in awe, not daring to refer to it by anything other than it's code name. Too much depended on it's secrecy, the project itself could ensure victory for the Plutarkians over Mars. And from Mars they could easily launch a full fledged invasion of the planet Earth. Two planets for the price of one! The Plutarkians would be rewarded by a golden era, where their economy and people would grow and prosper.

"My good man, do you speak the truth? At last! I have a weapon of such power, it is stronger than those meddlesome mice, and I shall be able to rid myself of their three hideous hides once and for all!"

".... er, Limburger sir?"

"Yes, Karbunkle? Is this about a bonus, of course I shall immediately transfer a generous amount into your account...."

"Thank you sir," Karbunkle sobered up enough to break the news to Limburger, "I just wanted to mention, before your... genius comes up with a plan.... there is only enough in that vile for one mouse."

Limburger blinked a few times, refusing to let his bubble burst, "Well, then... we'll just have to pick our mouse carefully then, won't we Karbunkle?"

"Of course, sir," a bored Karbunkle mumbled distractedly as he calculated complicated mathematical equations inside his head, waiting for his intellectually inferior boss to think things through.

"So," Limburger continued, "Who will be the one to bite the dust?" He stepped into an elevator, closely followed by the short, odd scientist. They were swiftly carried to a large office, lit up brightly by the sun beaming through large windows. Limburger went straight to the wall that was dedicated to his plutarkian computer terminal. In the center hung a giant computer monitor. He selected three files labeled "Vinnie," "Modo," and "Throttle," displaying them on his huge screen. 

"Let's see, there's that hyper-active, white punk who's bound to kill himself performing one of his death defying stunts, that idiotic maniac..." Limburger growled as he opened Vinnie's file, displaying an overly confident, not too tall, handsome white mouse. A dashing metal mask framed his right eye, although it wasn't there for aesthetic reasons. "Let's just assume, for now that he is going to get himself killed one of these days, sort of take himself out of the picture for us..."

Limburger closed Vincent's file, and opened Modo's. "What about that dumb, gigantic one-eyed thug?" he spoke bitterly, staring at a picture of an enormous, gray mouse who's only good eye glowed red with anger, his bionic arm's cannon poised and ready to shoot. "He is dangerous, with that bionic cannon of an arm... seriously, Karbunkle, what were you thinking, fusing a powerful prisoner with a weapon of great destruction....!"

Dr. Karbunkle cringed, feeling as though now would be a good time to interrupt Limburger, and tactfully point out the blank-fully obvious, "Sir, I believe we have been in similar situations before. Remember when we tried to split up the Biker Mice with a hostility ray? Or when we injured the ... er, how did you put it... 'dumb, gigantic one-eyed thug'? We were on the right path, the biker mice are a three legged stool, if we take out one leg, and the entire group will tumble..."

"Yes, yes, Dr. Karbunkle," Limburger impatiently interrupted, "but if you recall, both those efforts failed horribly, just like every other effort made by you pathetic minions!"

Dr Karbunkle nodded as if agreeing that he and his co-workers were incompetent idiots, in order to please his boss, "We have failed because we have underestimated one particular mouse... we have never tried getting rid of him first, the two other biker mice would surely fall if he wasn't around...."

"Who are you talking about? Modo's bionic arm?" Lawrence Limburger's puzzled face looked deep in thought as he kept interrupting the annoyed scientist.

_Patience, Karbunkle,_ The scientist thought to himself, then said, "Think," _without hurting yourself,_ he bitterly added, "Who will most likely be the one to spoil our plans?"

Limburger gazed pensively out the window for a moment, then it finally occurred to him. He smiled evilly, opening the third file on his computer, he stared dangerously at his target. In a chilling, low tone he spit out the mouse's name, "...Throttle!!"

  
To Be Continued...   
  


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Thanks for reading, please review! even if you only have a few words to say!  
  
I may be a little rusty, but I'm creative as ever and full of ideas. Part 2 is coming very soon...   
  
PS: I changed the HTML a little, hoping it improves legibility. Let me know if anyone has trouble reading the fonts. 


	2. A Dreadful Mess

This is a story I started a long long time ago. After I submitted the prologue, I wrote another three chapters, one of them completely edited and ready to be submitted. Then, my computer's hard drive crashed, AND I couldn't find my back-ups! I was crushed, and tried to rewrite the story. Ever try to make a copy without access to the original? I had to throw out everything I wrote. Finally, I gave up, and months later I decided to rewrite the story with enough differences that my writing was no longer painful. I've finally succeeded! Enjoy!

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Dark Times - Saga: Part 1 

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own any intellectual property taken from "Biker Mice from Mars" the television series. This story is NOT for profit. The story belongs to the author, but it may be referenced for more NON profit usage.

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** Dark Times **

Plutark is perfecting a weapon that may spell defeat for the scattered remains of the Martians. 

**Chapter 1: A Dreadful Mess**

Will Throttle be project venom's next victim?

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Throttle just couldn't shake away this instinctive feeling of dread, a feeling that had managed to invade his day before it had even begun. This morning, he awoke to a troubling sunrise that was void of life; there wasn't a song to be heard from the friendly feathered neighbours, nor a stroke of blue in the endlessly grey sky. As Throttle sat at his kitchen table, dread even managed to creep into his breakfast of coffee and leftover chilli-dogs: the coffee was slightly too bitter, and the chilli-dogs managed to be both soggy and stale at the same time.

At this point, Throttle would have merely wrote off the morning as "unusually bland," a morning that would have been best suited sleeping late, oblivious to the entire world. However, once Throttle tuned into the news on the radio, the morning's true nature suddenly revealed itself. The radio was showcasing Limburger and his corporation, describing the well-known business man and his latest project: a new animal shelter. The three Biker Mice choked on their food as they heard the words "Limburger" and "cute furry animals" used in the same sentence, a sentence that should never have been granted it's foul existence, a sentence that could easily give the most macho biker nightmares for weeks. Chairs were upturned and tables nearly toppled as the three martians flew out the door, leaving it unlatched and flapping in their wake, the remains of breakfast forgotten, and the radio newscaster's voice filling an otherwise dead silence.

As Throttle, Vinnie and Modo sped down the road furiously on their trusted steel friends, the feeling of dread soaked through to Throttle's bones and seeped into the cracks of his mind. Throttle couldn't get rid of his gut feelings and couldn't ease his thoughts. From where exactly did this dread originate? Was it the mental picture of innocently helpless animals being handed over to the sinister hands of his enemy? The shock of hearing about Limburger first thing in the morning? Or was it the fact that Throttle just couldn't envision Limburger having anything to do with cute furry animals? That him and his bros were heading straight into a trap? That they were too concerned about the welfare of the supposed animals, that they failed to recognise the warning signs of a hoax?

Was it just an over-all lousy morning?

Throttle tried to shake away the feeling of dread, to suppress it, ignore it, forget it. His overactive imagination was a distraction this morning. He didn't know why he was so worried, it was only Limburger, and they had been busting his ill-intentioned plans for longer than he wished to remember.

Throttle glanced over to his left, where Modo rode his beautiful navy cruiser, named _Lil'hoss_. He was gripping the handle bars far too tightly, his knuckles visibly pale underneath his thin grey fur. He was muttering to himself, or at least Throttle thought he was. Modo was furious. Then again, when it came to Limburger, a Plutarkian disguised as a human, he was always furious. Everything affected Modo at a personal level. Throttle didn't know another mouse more passionate, more determined, and more dedicated than his giant friend. Modo was adamantly devoted to saving the Earth from the devastating fate inflicted on their own home planet, Mars. The Plutarkians were a horrific and ruthless race who exploited the resources of every planet in their path. They drained planets and enslaved the natives until they was nothing left but a barren wasteland and the scattered broken remains of a once thriving people. Modo couldn't let this happen again, not to Earth, and especially not to the innocent earthling children. He could never let them grow up as he had, surrounded by war, death and suffering, loosing loved ones, loosing parents, and watching as civilisation was reduced to rubble. An entire world's legacy turned to dust and blown away by a reckless wind.

When it came to the Plutarkians, it was always personal.

Throttle turned away from Modo and his depressing rage, making a mental note to take Modo out for a cheerful lunch once they had finished foiling Limburger's plans. To his right was an entirely opposite picture, and Throttle couldn't help but grin. Vinnie was taking advantage of riding on a currently empty street, leaping his flashy red sport's bike over every street sign and any parked car in sight. This adrenaline junkie didn't need an excuse to show off his elite motorcycle skills. He would have been pulling crazy stunts even if the street was filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Throttle could hear Vinnie's crazed howls and maniacal laughter on top of the three roaring motorcycle engines. Then again, Throttle's large alien ears were quite sensitive, especially for a motorcyclist. Throttle chuckled and focused back on the road. He was driving, after all. 

"Are we there yet?" Vinnie's anxious question rang through the helmet's communication system, delivering Throttle and Modo out of their reverie.

Throttle brought a golden-furred hand up to the right side of his helmet and habitually pressed one of a tiny silver buttons, activating the helmet's communication system. "All stop," he broadcasted to his two companions, his voice soft yet authoritative. Modo and Throttle slid to a stop, side by side and in perfect unison. Throttle's left leg lazily left his bike to rest on the concrete, and Modo's head apprehensively panned the area surrounding them. Vinnie's bike landed from it's last jump and skidded to a halt. In the process, he drifted in front of the the other two bikes and turned 180 degrees so that he could face them. Vinnie smiled through the tainted visor of his gleaming red helmet, then posed with his hands triumphantly on his hips, as if to say "Ta-dah!"

Throttle pressed another button on his helmet, and this time his yellow tanned visor slid to one side, disappearing into the slick black metal. He returned Vinnie's smile with his own one-side grin, saying, "We're here."

Modo's eye searched through the buildings that were a small distance ahead. He easily identified Limburger's warehouse as the guarded building made of red brick. It was in the business district mentioned earlier on the radio, and the men standing outside were undoubtedly Limburger's goons. The heavily-built guards looked at the three bikers, waving their hands excitedly as their lips moved, but they were still out of hearing range.

The men disappeared into the warehouse.

Nothing followed.

"Come on! What are we waiting for?" Vinnie whined, not bothering to conceal his agitation. "Let's ride! Let's crash this party!" He looked at Throttle expectantly, but the tranquil leader ignored the younger mouse. He was too absorbed in his own mysterious contemplation. Vinnie continued with his ramblings, trying to attract attention, "Let's bust up some thugs! Blow up some buildings! Bring some towers tumbling-down!" Vinnie pretended to punch imaginary bad-guys in front of him, and nearly tripped off his bike.

"Such violence in today's youth," Modo gently mocked, pretending to shake his head sadly. "Must be that 'evil' heavy metal music, rotting and corrupting young minds..."

Vinnie ignored Modo's futile attempts at humour, and unable to contain his adrenaline rush, he shouted out, "Let's just do anything except stand here!" He revved his engine and twisted his bike forward again, pointing at the warehouse ahead. "Anything... but this waiting! This insane ... nothing," the adrenaline junkie shuddered.

Throttle continued to stare ahead for a moment, still deep in thought, but eventually he nodded his agreeance. "Vinnie's right," Throttle commented awkwardly. Such a statement always did tumble off the tongue with confused reluctance. "Just keep your eyes open. Remain on the lookout."

Modo peered deeply into Throttle's face, trying to read his thoughts, but as usual Throttle was too complex. Instead, he asked, "On the lookout for what, exactly?"

Vinnie just trembled with anticipation, surely looking forward to any traps or dangerous surprises the Plutarkians had prepared.

"Not sure," Throttle answered truthfully. "We'll know when we see it." Throttle reflected for a brisk moment, then added, "Probably."

"Possibly," Vinnie smiled. For the younger white mouse, it was the beginning of a great day.

Throttle revved his engine loudly and leaned forward intimidatingly. "Let's ride!" His words unleashed a whirlwind of charging martian steel, shrieking rubber on asphalt, howling martian war-cries, and blaring heavy metal music designed to inspire fear in the hearts of the brave. They were among the most exalted warriors of their planet, and the most impressive species ever to walk the Earth.

They were the Biker Mice from Mars.

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"The Biker Mice from Mars!" shouts rang out throughout the warehouse, echoing dauntingly off the bare walls of the large one-room building. Plainly dressed thugs, who proudly bore dark ponytails that contrasted with the rest of their shaved heads, scrambled around in misconceived disorder. Last minute preparations were put in place, firearms double-checked, and explosives secured.

One thug stood apart visibly from the rest. Dressed in stained overalls and bearing the unique physical characteristic of having greasy dark oil leak from his pores, he stood with purpose and barked out orders. His facial expression didn't entirely lack intelligence, like the men he commanded, but he was still in serious need of an upgraded brain capacity.

"Get into positions!" he shouted with his thick rural accent, a voice that barely demanded the respect and authority endowed to him. "D'em pesky rodents be here!" He roughly overturned a chair in hopes that the action would encourage further speed from his subordinates. "Positions! Get dat package ready!" He looked to his right at a metal table adorned with metal sides, concealing what lay underneath. _Mostly_ concealing. One of the sides had a gap large enough for a small man to crawl through. Or a short scientist with a diminished physique and an oversized head. "We're ready Karbuncle," the greasy thug spoke nervously.

"Affirmative, Greasepit," Karbuncle rasped, none-too-pleased at the indignity of having to crawl on hands and knees underneath this sort of metal box. "Let's get this over with." Greasepit could hear the disdain in the scientist's voice, and could practically see him frown as if the metal box were transparent.

Greasepit turned to face the front of the warehouse. His thugs had finally lined up into their designated positions. Everything was in place and everyone was as ready as they ever would be, but the tension was so thick in the air that one could hear the crackling of sparks with every small movement. No matter how prepared they could be, and no matter how many times they had faced the Biker Mice in battle, they could never actually be _ready_ for the martians and their grand entrances. Nothing could ever adequately fortify their strength and spirit. The Martians were a formidable force to be reckoned with, and like a hurricane, they paved their path with pain and destruction. Any crazy fool who stood up against such a force was left devastated in a pile of rubble.

Greasepit gulped. He _was_ that fool. "I need a new job..." Doubt flashed through his thoughts as it always did when the Martians arrived on the scene. Yet, he stood fast. He forced his legs rigid less they tremble. He willed himself into confidence. Even though the mice extracted such a reaction out of him, he couldn't let his subordinates notice. Subordinates who stood between him and the mice. Stood between him and the mice's guns. Subordinates who were practically human shields...

Greasepit stuck out his chest with a new-found confidence, and held his laser pistol high. "Stand ready!"

As soon as he had finished his words, an explosion rocked the warehouse, toppling tall men, bringing strong men to their knees, and urging smaller men to fire their weapons frantically in all directions.

"Fools!" Greasepit bellowed, and threw in some elaborate curses for good measure. "AIM! Aim d'em weapons! Aim, fah cryin' aloud!" Greasepit wasn't just shouting instructions, he was yelling in a near-panicked state. The explosives were well-shielded and could withstand stray shots; that was to be expected. However, he didn't want to be standing around while his entire platoon shot their weapons in an uncontrolled frenzy. Even though his men were regaining their composure, Greasepit figured he should observe this battle from the sidelines, and he proceeded to sneak away.

Dust was beginning to settle, and the thugs could now see the three menacing silhouettes who stood in the building's freshly-made opening. The mice were three black figures standing against the brilliant natural light of the outdoors, surrounded by beams of light made visible by the pulverised brick floating in the air. The light stretched its arms into the dark and dreary warehouse, reaching for the few dozen thugs who were staring in awe.

The ominous imagery struck the warehouse silent, an eerie calm preceding the imminent squall.

Three martian pistols cocked, the unmistakable click echoing in everyone's ears. Three martian motorcycle cannons charged, a dreadfully familiar harmonic hum. Three sets of rocket launchers anxiously stretched outward from the sides of three excited bikes, the mechanical components whirring a vocal warning to it's future victims.

A hidden white-furry face smiled behind his red helmet and voiced a simple yet immeasurably powerful greeting, "Yo."

From human piles on the floor, men began prying themselves up onto their feet. The thugs who had remained standing broke their psychological barriers of apprehensive fright, and they began firing their weapons. The mice quickly retorted with shots themselves, anchored and unmoving in supreme cockiness and confidence as enemy ammunition flew by and barely grazed its intended targets.

Modo's one eye shone a threatening crimson as his arm cannon disarmed enemies by shooting the pistols out of their hands. His left hand fired it's laser pistol at the feet of nearest foes, startling them into jumping backward, and causing them to clumsily trip and crash into one another.

"Interesting..." Throttle began, but was cut-off by a sudden burst of heavy weapon's fire. He ducked as radiant laser beams struck the air that had been previously occupied by his head. Throttle popped back up, and his left hand briskly ensured that his trusted helmet wasn't out of place. The action was more for his own ease of mind then anything else, considering martian helmets never slid out of place. "Bros," he continued, "I couldn't help but notice this so-called animal shelter seems to be severely lacking in the _animal_ department." Not only wasn't there any pets or animals, there also weren't any cages to hold future deliveries.

"These scum-bags are as bad as animals," Vinnie offered, as his engine rumbled and he crept forward, his actions begging Throttle to give out their orders. If Throttle didn't shout out an order soon, nothing was going to stop Vinnie from exploding across the warehouse and improvising his own battle plan. For Vinnie, every fight was long-anticipated, and it's arrival always came far too late, especially when it concerned the Plutarkians. Throttle seemed too occupied to satisfy Vinnie's battle lust. He was searching and scrutinizing the area with his incredibly trained bionic eyes. Vinnie sighed in frustration, and fired his bike's cannon anxiously, covering Throttle and keeping the leader from becoming an easy target.

"Actually, young Vincent," Modo corrected, "these hopelessly inferior would-be men fall into an entirely different category, one well apart from _animal_." Modo ignored Throttle's immobility and silence, and being a strong believer that a moving target is more difficult to hit than a still target, Modo finally let his bike pace around the entrance of the warehouse. He didn't stray too far away from his bros, and he never ceased firing from his arm cannon. He was amusing himself by shooting thugs so that they toppled into one another, disabling the enemy from firing off any decent shots. "They are more of a _sub-creature_," Modo elaborated, "something in-between _monster_ and _parasite._"

Vinnie bit his lip and fired off a rocket at a group of goons. He resented being called "young Vincent." He fired his laser pistol with renewed fervour as his conscious was overrun by rampant thoughts. _I'm not even two years younger than Modo_, he steamed inwardly. Vinnie grabbed a flare from his shoulder strap, and lit it by striking his thigh. _ I'm barely a year younger than Throttle, in fact. _ He howled away his frustration and threw the lit flare into the sea thugs, just to see what would happen. He saw a few men cover their eyes in shock, and others yelp in pain. Maybe that was too harsh of him. Maybe it wasn't harsh enough. Maybe Vinnie just didn't want another patronising tone of voice to ruin a good fight. The adrenaline junky smiled suddenly, realising it would take a lot more than that to ruin _this_ fight. He howled again, but this time it was joyously.

A minute hadn't even passed since the Biker Mice had crashed into the warehouse. Their explosive entrance and dangerous reputation had dishevelled Limburger's platoon and stalled any plans or traps that were supposed to have been sprung. The mice had bought themselves a little time, and Throttle had attempted to access the situation at hand. Yet, his last minute effort to quell the ever-present dread was futile. Today, he just couldn't get inside Limburger's head.

Not that Throttle could ever really want such a torturous thing.

The momentary confusion and disorganisation of Limburger's troops was quickly fading. It was time to put some effort into this operation. The hopelessly pathetic thugs might actually become dangerous if the mice didn't start to really apply themselves, not to mention Throttle was starting to feel idiotic for simply standing in the line of fire. 

"Modo, Vinnie!" Throttle quickly demanded their attention. "Think fast: Hurricane trio number five!" Throttle's bike burst into a roaring wheelie, his back tires spinning and squealing on the cement floor as he launched himself forward into the mess of thugs.

"Now we're talking!" Vinnie cried in obvious relief; he needed to channel his extra adrenaline before he burst. He threw his weight forward as his sporty bike thundered to life, nearly flying out of his seat. He dove into the ranks of thugs to his right, and grabbed one by the shoulder with his right hand. He snapped his arm forward and flung the man over his bike, despite the fact the thug was as large as he. The flung man toppled a few goons on his way to the ground, and they quickly found themselves tangled into a human ball on the floor, dazed and officially out of the battle.

Vinnie quickly stuck his laser pistol into his belt, then each of his hands grabbed a flare from his shoulder straps. His thumbs skilfully flicked the flares to life as he forced out loud psychotic laughter. The men around him hesitated, undecided as to whether they should stay and fight or run and hide. Vinnie solved their dilemma by charging them while waving the flares around precariously. Limburger's goons tried to run away. A few tried to shoot over their shoulder at the same time but only managed to trip over their own two feet. Vinnie's laughter now came easily.

Modo was rounding up goons on the other side of the warehouse. He had started a neat pile of unconscious bodies. Although no level of order could clean the filth off of these bunch, it never hurt to try. Modo held out his metal arm and clothes-lined a few goons, hitting them across the jaw and sending them flying with incredible force. They landed into his rough pile of bodies, and as it heaped higher, Modo stuck out his chest with pride. His new strategy was very satisfying, it made him feel more productive and gave a great feeling of accomplishment to his day. It also demanded a certain level of creativity, seeing he had to fight a large amount of bad guys _while_ ensuring they all landed into the same rough pile.

Modo's bike slowed as it approached a wall and had to be turned around. A moving shadow attracted the enormous mouse's attention, and he ducked just time to avoid being ploughed into. Missing his target, the pouncing goon found himself flying through the air and landing into Modo's pile headfirst. Modo couldn't help but chuckle as he thanked the guy for cleaning up after himself.

Throttle had designated himself in charge creating chaos in the centre of the warehouse. He had to ensure that the platoon couldn't organise themselves back into their ranks. Modo and Vinnie appeared to be successfully taking out the bad-guys surrounding them, but Throttle was getting a surprising amount of heat. There seemed to be more laser fire cutting through the air around his head than there were actual goons firing the guns.

It had to be an illusion, and Throttle was surely mistaken; Limburger's men could never be so competent.

Throttle noticed just in time as two men flung a chair toward him. A chair! Flying through the air! Now that wasn't something Throttle saw in his everyday battles. Throttle quickly jumped out of his bike's seat while maintaining a firm grasp on the bike's handlebars. He tucked his feet securely onto the left exhaust pipe, and hugged the side of his bike. He just managed to avoid getting hit, and as the chair flew over him, it grazed and tore at Throttle's arms. Quickly propelling himself back onto his seat, he twisted the bike around briskly, and angrily charged the two innovative chair-throwers. Throttle powered the energy cells on his battle glove, and green electric lights danced across his clenched fist, eagerly anticipating the upcoming punch. Throttle drew his right shoulder back as he approached one of his attackers. He was about to strike when an incredible thunder pelted his ears, shook his bones, and upheaved his world. A spasm of pain wracked his body as he tried to cry out, but he couldn't unclench his teeth. The world spun away from him, and he was swept away by darkness...

* * *

The explosion had sent bodies flying. Even the goons wore startled expressions as their jaws sagged open and their perplexed and stunned eyes yearned for comprehension. Modo had been knocked over by a flying goon, and now he had to repay the favour. He threw the goon toward the disappointing and scattered remains of his pile. "Bros!" he shouted urgently. "Vinnie? " He righted his bike as a worried eye searched for his companions. The warehouse was still relatively intact, save for a few loose bricks and a ceiling on the verge of collapse. Apparently the explosion's bark was bigger than it's bite. "Vinnie!" Modo repeated. "Are you ok?"

"Yo," the slightly shaken youth finally responded as he clambered from underneath a pile of brick, splintered wood and limp bodies. The inside of the warehouse had definitely suffered a ghastly redecoration. "My clothes aren't ripped, but how does my hair look?" he joked.

"You don't have any hair..." Modo commented distractedly. He could tell Vinnie was all right, but he was still searching for Throttle.

"Then I guess I'm fine." Vinnie had successfully stood up and was grasping onto his precious two-wheeled friend, the physical contact reassuring him. Vinnie's eyes darted wildly across the piles of men and rubble. "Where's Throttle?"

* * *

Karbuncle pulled himself up from his hiding place. His metal tableor more accurately named, his metal boxhad been tossed a short distance during the explosion, and was now lying on it's side. Karbuncle was relatively pleased that he had built the box with a metal bottom, but he wasn't sure which was worse, having a vulnerable hiding spot if his table was ever overturned, or being tossed around like a rag doll because he was boxed-in during the explosion.

He didn't have time for idle thoughts, he had to drag his battered and feeble body over to the detestable mouse before it was too late, else Limburger would have his head served on a golden platter. Karbuncle shuddered and quickened his pace. He saw a golden tan-body laying limp amongst the wreckage, close to where the explosives had been planted, an area that was currently occupied by a small crater. He couldn't see the mouse's bike, and he could only hope that it was currently indisposed. He figured the mouse's companions were recovering a short distance away behind the thick blanket of dust in the air. There wasn't much time left.

The wiry scientist removed a box from his lab coat pocket. He wasn't surprised that it was unscathed, for he had manufactured the protective box himself out of dense lead. He quickly snapped it open, and let out a sigh relief when he saw the small needle was still flawlessly intact and nestled cosily in foam. He grabbed the syringe and discarded the box. The syringe was unique because it didn't have a needle at it's tip. It was designed to spray it's contents, which would then be absorbed through the skin or fur within seconds. Karbuncle doubted the Biker Mice would ever allow him enough time to insert a needle into their arms. Even if one of them was lying helplessly unconscious on the floor in front of him, as Throttle was now, something would always go wrong. He was sure of it.

Throttle stirred. Karbuncle swore under his breath. The wiry scientist ignored his aching body and dove. He landed with a loud thud onto his stomach next to the awakening mouse, winded and wheezing, and holding the hyper-spraying syringe safely over his head. Throttle's eyes had fluttered open, and the scientist's sudden movement activated the mouse's warrior instincts. Throttle rolled onto his side and grabbed the scientist by his left arm. Karbuncle nearly shrivelled under the mouse's rough grasp. He barely had enough mental resolve to point the syringe toward his assaulter and spray him before the mouse punched him away.

Karbuncle's vision swam, and it took him a good long moment to figure out that he was sprawled out on his back and staring at the damaged ceiling. _The syringe! _ his thoughts lurched from the haze that was his mind. _Did the syringe expel? _ He turned his head around until he saw Throttle walking toward him, his steps hard and merciless, and his face cold and heartless. _ Or more importantly... did its contents reach its target?_

To the scientist's overwhelming relief, Throttle's steps faltered, and the mouse raised a hand to his head. He swayed on his feet, then collapsed, falling hard onto the floor.

The scientist's heart felt like it would leap out of his chest. The residual panic had rendered him light-headedor was that the blow to his head?and his legs felt like molasses. Now wasn't the time for fainting! He would save that for later, when he was safe and secure. With a deep breath, he mustered up every ounce of might that resided in his seemingly frail physique. Through a hidden strength he never knew existed, Karbuncle managed to pull enough of himself together to crawl away from the fallen figure. He slithered away and disappeared into the dusty fog which enveloped the rubble and ruins of the structurally unsound building.

* * *

"Throttle!" Modo slipped on pebbled brick and skidded into a thug who had been trying to pick himself up. Modo saved himself from falling by grabbing on to the thug for support. He then stepped on top the man, sending the goon grunting back to the ground. "Throttle!" Modo repeated as he continued climbing bodies and debris, moving closer to the leader's unmoving form. "Bro?" He was starting to really worry. A few seconds ago, he had been watching his friend through the cloudy air, and he seen Throttle stumble and collapse. He could only hope his friend wasn't seriously wounded as he raced onward to where Throttle lay.

Vinnie was also scrambling to make his way to the leader's side, but not as successfully. A reviving thug was laying on his stomach when he saw Vinnie walk by. He grabbed the martian's foot, grimacing and grunting for revenge, and the dashing young mouse nearly tripped. Vinnie tried to shake his leg loose. "Get off me, you brain-dead scuz-bag!" Another awakening thug saw Vinnie's tail flickering over his head, so he reached out and yanked it hard. Even in the thug's weakened state, it still packed a painful punch. "Yow!" Vinnie squealed in pain and tried to twist his torso around. "What the...!" More goons began to stumble toward Vinnie, as yet another thug grabbed ahold of the mouse's left arm. The white-furred Martian looked helplessly at the goons hanging off him and clawing at him from the ground. He was starting to feel like he was in a low-budget horror movie, and recently-awoken zombies were struggling to drag him to the ground so they could then feast on his... brains... or something...

Vinnie concluded that he was spending far too much time watching late-night cable TV.

A stumbling goon successfully tackled Vinnie to the ground. The biker mouse squeaked as he was surrounded by beat-up faces covered in dust and filth. He struggled to get himself free as they started punching his ribs. Limburger's men were obviously regaining their strength. A thug by Vinnie's head grabbed ahold of his flashy helmet, and despite the mouse's vocal objections, the man pulled if right off of his head. "Not the face, you putrid warthog!"

The Biker Mice weren't always the wittiest nor inventive when it came to insulting their enemy.

Vinnie closed his eyes and braced himself, but instead of receiving a blow to his head, he heard laser fire crashing through the air over his body. He opened his eyes and saw tiny green flashes knocking over his attackers like bowling pins, one stunned thug after another, until none remained. Vinnie leaped up onto his feet, trying to shake off his embarrassment, and saw that his saviour was none other than his gorgeous red motorcycle. "Aww, thanks Sweetheart," his voice sang sweetly as she rode up to his side. He stroked her tenderly and whispered, "Someone's getting a luxury wax massage when we get home." The bike purred happily in reply. Vinnie walked over to the unconscious thug who was still holding his helmet. The Martian put his foot on the goon's chest and took a victorious pose, then yanked his beautiful helmet out of the human's unconscious hands.

Vinnie didn't want to waste anymore time on losers. He leapt over the unconscious thugs that were in his way, giving them all suspicious glances in the process, then trotted over to where Modo sat cradling Throttle in his arms. "How is he?" Vinnie inquired eagerly as he slid to his knees and grabbed Throttle's hand, terrified that it might be cold and lifeless. Those fears were alleviated when the hand felt nice and warm in his grasp, but it did hang limply, and Throttle's body laid far too still.

Modo removed Throttle's helmet, and checked his pulse and rate of breathing. "I don't think he's hurt badly," he answered, "because his vitals are good." Vinnie would have been reassured, but Modo's voice betrayed his underlying concern. "Come on Throttle," he pleaded with his unconscious friend. "Can you hear me? Say something."

"Hey Throttle," Vinnie voiced awkwardly. He was always unsure how to address an unconscious and unresponsive friend. "Come on, bro. I know you can hear us." Actually, he didn't know that at all, but his confident words were a comfort to both his and Modo's ears. Sometimes pretending to be confident inspired the real deal.

Modo glimpsed uneasily around them. He saw Throttle's bike shake itself loose from the rubble, anxiously seeking out it's rider as it threatened nearby foes with its laser cannon. _"We can't stay here much longer,"_ Modo contemplated to himself. _"Once Limburger's men regain their senses and realise Throttle's condition, they could easily overtake us." _ Throttle's _condition_... what exactly _was _Throttle's condition? Modo addressed the younger mouse, "Vinnie, we need to head out before..." A low moan interrupted Modo's announcement, and Throttle stirred in the grey mouse's embrace.

"Throttle! " Vinnie cheered delightfully. "Bro, you're alive!" Vinnie wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a statement, a question, or an emotionally-driven uttering.

Modo managed to tear his eye away from Throttle long enough to give Vinnie a perplexedly annoyed look.

Throttle's soft voice called back the large mouse's attention. "Was there ever... any doubt?" he offered weakly.

"How do you feel?" Modo asked attentively. Throttle tried to answer but as soon as he opened his mouth, only a breathy moan escaped.

"That good, eh?" Vinnie remarked, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.

"How many fingers do you see?" Modo slowly waved a finger in front of Throttle's face.

"Uhh..." Throttle squinted underneath his green-tinted spectacles. "Is this a trick question?"

Modo's brow crinkled in concern. By now, all three bikes had formed a protective circle around the mice. Throttle's black cruiser was beeping angrily, and using his laser cannon to threaten any goon who dared to even look at the furry trio. Modo sighed. "He's not fit to drive," he said in a worried tone, "I'll take him on _Lil'hoss_."

"Help me up," Throttle expressed, stubbornly determined to stand on his own two feet and ride his own bike home.

Modo and Vinnie shared an apprehensive look, but there wasn't enough time to argue. Besides, if Throttle fell flat on his face, they wouldn't have to waste time convincing him that he should ride with Modo.

Modo raised the wincing Throttle to a sitting position, then locked his mechanical arm around Throttle's waist. Modo strongly held onto the injured mouse while Vinnie got a firm grasp onto Throttle's right arm and shoulder. They slowly stood up together and helped Throttle onto his feet, then they held their breath and waited to support all of his weight if he fell. No, _when_ he fell.

Throttle took a deep breath and tried to subdue the throbbing pain in his body. It seemed to blanket every inch of his torso, and his limbs were rubbery and weak. What had been a dull pain in his head while he was on the ground was now dynamically increasing in strength and threatening to explode. Waves of nausea was flooding him, and he saw black and red spots as his vision tottered randomly. The thudding pain in his head grew unbearably sharp and he gasped, taking a quick intake of air as his legs gave out. He sagged in his companions' grasp, his face distorted and groaning, and his fists clenched as strongly as he could manage in a meagre attempt to combat the pain ravaging his body.

There was no possible way he could now argue that he was still fit to drive himself.

"Well, that was productive," Vinnie commented sarcastically, trying to distract himself from the anxiety tumbling around in his stomach.

Modo shook his head sadly. "Hurry, let's get him to Charlie's garage." He gathered Throttle up delicately and sat the brown mouse in front of him on his motorcycle, his fleshy arm holding his friend securely against his chest. His mechanical arm locked onto the bike's handlebar, rigidly keeping them both balanced and upright on the bike's leather seat.

Vinnie hopped onto his sports bike, popping a wheelie and ploughing through the mess of staggering bodies, clearing a path for Modo to follow with his wounded charge. Throttle's black bike was furiously firing it's laser cannon as it followed closely behind Modo, venting out it's frustrated rage on the remains of their enemy, and stirring up the dust again, which clouding their retreating forms. They all disappeared through the original gaping hole in the warehouse, and thundered into the grey spring morning, leaving the dreadful mess behind.

To Be Continued...

* * *

please review! ) 


	3. A Horrible Day

Hello! Thank you everyone for your lovely reviews! Dear Anonymous: the funny thing is, I've never read a Tom Clancy book before, but I am honoured by your comment!

My goodness, thank you ShadowShifter and Bookworm! I love your stories, I really do!

Big "thank you's" go out to all the reviewers! You made me blush fiercely! I went and read all of your stories, and I had a blast! )

* * *

Dark Times - Saga: Part 1

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own any intellectual property taken from "Biker Mice from Mars" the television series. This story is NOT for profit. The story belongs to the author, but it may be referenced for more NON profit usage.

I do NOT own the poem "Dreamland" by Edgar Allan Poe, but seeing that he's no longer living, I'm sure he won't mind me referencing his beautiful work, that I have quoted NOT for profit. _-bows down to the great Poe-_ I am not worthy!

* * *

**Dark Times - Saga**

The Biker Mice's lives are threatened when Plutark tests it's latest weapon, ready to defeat Mars once and for all.

**Chapter 2: A Horrible Day**

A warrior's injured, a mechanic is worried, danger plagues Mars, a treacherous boss looses his sanity.

* * *

_ Dreamland, by Edgar Allan Poe_

_By a route obscure and lonely,  
Haunted by ill angels only,  
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,  
On a black throne reigns upright,  
I have reached these lands but newly  
From an ultimate dim Thule-  
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,  
Out of SPACE- out of TIME...  
_

* * *

Escape!

He struggled desperately to escape.

Haze. Confusion. Disorientation.

He had to make sense of this! What was happening to him? Where was he?

Who was he?

He was trapped in a distorted and deranged labyrinth of darkness and pain. He needed light. Where was the light?

Were his eyes working? Yes, his eyes! That was the solution... His eyes were closed. What were they doing closed? Why couldn't he open his eyes!

He struggled against the seducing void that tried to lure him into sweet oblivion, but he refused to surrender to the consuming darkness. He fought unconsciousness with his residing strength, and though he was stifled with weakness, he prevailed. A pair of weary eyes opened. It should have been a relief, a small victory, to be saved from the harrowing darkness, and healed by the purifying sunshine. But, instead of finding relief, he found himself gasping in shock. The light was too sharp and blinding! And the world, what was happening to the world around him? It was moving far too fast, he must be falling! Tumbling! Plummeting to his death! He tightly clamped his eyes shut.

He suddenly remembered why his eyes had been closed in the first place.

Wait, he had made progress! He was beginning to remember! In fact, he seemed to recall opening and closing his eyes a lot in the past while. Each time, he had forgotten why his eyes were closed, and each time his eyes were struck by blazing sunlight, and he was alarmed by the dizzying world surrounding him. Each time, he had been startled into closing his eyes again.

Something was wrong... actually, many things were wrong, but a particular detail clawed at his mind... For some reason, a voice inside his head was telling him that he wasn't falling. In fact, he wasn't even in danger. He was perfectly safe. The voice inside his head was to be trusted. It was the only thing of which he was currently positive.

"Throttle?" A gentle and familiar voice called out to him, it was soothing, but it's origin was perplexing. This time, the voice was not coming from his head. That word... _Throttle_... How did he know that word? It was on the tip of his mind...

"Hey, Throttle," the gentle voice spoke again, "you awake?" Awake? Yes, he was definitely awake, although he would have preferred not to be! His entire body ached and throbbed in pain, as if he had been manhandled and tortured by an army of demons, then nearly torn-apart by a collapsing star! His head pounded relentlessly, and every sound drilled ferociously into his brain. Even the mysteriously familiar voice stabbed his head like a thousand knives. On top of the pain, his world was a great enigma! His life, his identity, everything! He could not remember who he was, and his eyes wouldn't remain open long enough to figure out _where_ he was. All he knew was that he was safe, and that a familiar voice kept calling him _Throttle_...

As if by magic, that word unlocked his memories, and everything came flooding back to him. _He_ was Throttle. That voice belonged to his good friend, Modo. He was safe, because his bros were taking care of him. In fact, he was riding with Modo on _Lil'hoss_.

Oh no. He was riding with Modo. He was unable to ride his own bike! He was never going to live this down! Why couldn't he drive himself home?

The pain was starting to subside, and Throttle's thoughts were becoming much clearer. Why was Modo taking him home? There had been... an explosion! Yes, now he remembered. He had been knocked out by an explosion, but he seemed to recollect something else, as well...

"Throttle?" Modo persisted.

Throttle had forgotten that Modo was asking him a question. Was his helmet's intercom still activated? He supposed it was, considering that his friend's voice was coming through the speakers next to his ears. "Yeah," he answered hoarsely. His own voice boomed painfully in his ears.

"Try to stay awake," Modo responded calmly. How could he sound so calm? There had been an explosion! Was anyone else hurt? No, not that he could remember... no one who mattered, to be more specific. He remembered seeing both Vinnie and Modo... Well, he remembered seeing two blurry figures standing over him that were supposed to be Vinnie and Modo... but they had _sounded_ all right.

Didn't something happen _after_ the eruption at the warehouse? His memories of the past battle were shattered, and it was a strenuous challenge to place all the jagged pieces back together. To add to the confusion, there were many blackouts, pieces that were missing altogether, because he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Still, Throttle was pretty sure something happened to him _after_ the explosion, that something else had caused him to collapse. He was starting to remember. There was an ugly face... and a disproportionate head... with a pair of ...goggles? ...

No. It couldn't be, could it? ...

Throttle didn't want to remember anymore. His fragmented memory was horrifying him, and his heart beat faster in a mix of panic and outrage. Did Karbunkle do something to him?

Throttle trembled. He was familiar with that psychopath's experiments. Everyday, Throttle viewed the world through a pair of artificial eyes created by the sadistic scientist. It disgusted Throttle to no extent. Although his vision was now heightened, the bionic eyes were also defective, and without his green-tinted glasses or his helmet, he was practically blind. It made him feel so vulnerable, and it was a vicious reminder of the time he spent in Karbunkle's torturous hands, shackled and caged like an inferior and volatile animal. Even vicious animals didn't deserve such treatment.

Throttle had no intention on ever becoming that monster's guinea pig again! If that wretched creature had done something _else_ to him, he was going to shred Karbunkle to pieces! He wouldn't hesitate to strangle him and eagerly watch the life drain out of the villain's pasty face. He would feel no remorse, no guilt, and no regret.

Such a death would be too kind for the likes of Karbunkle.

Throttle brooded over the series of events that had unravelled that morning. It looked like his gut instincts had been right all along. He should never have doubted himself. He critically analysed his actions and decisions, wondering what he could have done differently. He hadn't realised that Limburger was willing to put so many of his own thugs in harm's way during a reckless attempt to incapacitate the Biker Mice. The more Throttle thought about it, the more it made sense. The only obstacle that ever stood in Limburger's way was _cost_. He cared not for the lost of life, as long as it wasn't too expensive!

Yup. It was official. Limburger was loosing his sanity.

Assuming he had any to start with...

Throttle should have seen this coming. The Biker Mice had been pushing the Plutarkian to his limits, forcing him closer to desperation with every day that passed. He would have kicked himself it he had the strength. Throttle was grateful that he was the only one injured, and not Modo or Vinnie. If either of them had been badly wounded, it would have been all his fault. Throttle had failed as their leader. He hung his head as shame suffocated his pride, and strangled his confidence.

The motorcycle engines' symphonic rumbling was lowering in pitch. They were slowing down, to Throttle's thankful relief. The trip hadn't helped his splitting headache, and the movement had worsened his pain and light-headedness.

The bikes eventually rolled to a stop, and their engines fell silent. Throttle risked opening his eyes once more, but he did so very carefully. The light was still piercingly bright, but his pupils were adjusting. The world was no longer moving, and his vision was steady. He could see that they weren't home, that they were outside Charlie's garage instead. Throttle should have known his bros would have taken him here. He felt his cheeks grow warm and anxiety seep into his veins, as he was jostled by a blend of different emotions. He was embarrassed, angry, and ashamed of his frailty. He didn't want Charlie to see him in his weakened state, he didn't want to remind her how dangerous it was to be a Biker Mouse, but most of all, he didn't want her to worry.

Throttle watched Vinnie approach through the corner of his vision. The younger mouse reached out and squeezed Throttle's arm comfortingly, but Throttle didn't want to look into this face. He decided that for now, he was going to keep his little run-in with Karbunkle a secret.

"Go get Charlie," Modo strongly suggested to Vinnie. The white mouse nodded and ran to the main entrance of the _Last Chance Garage_, but before he arrived, the door flew open and Charlie stepped outside. The wind wildly tossed her long brown hair, and her red highlights still glimmered in the meagre sunlight of the clouded-over day. Her blue blouse was impeccably clean and without wrinkles, despite an oil-stained rag that was tucked into her jean's pocket. Her intelligent green eyes examined the bikers, taking in their dishevelled appearance. They were battered and bruised, scratched and scraped, and their fur was blanketed in dust, as if a building had collapsed onto them. Her breath caught when she noticed Throttle slumped in front of Modo, held up tenderly by the larger grey mouse.

"What happened?" She questioned as she strode swiftly to Throttle's side.

Modo slid the violet-tinted visor away on his helmet, and looked at Charlie with a troubled eye. "He collapsed," he said evenly. It was obvious he was trying to hide the concern from his voice, especially for her sake.

"Collapsed?" Charlie removed Throttle's helmet and handed it to Modo. She soothed a golden-furred hand while she brushed away caramel-coloured bangs from Throttle's forehead. He was awake and aware of his surroundings, but he looked so sad, so defeated... She instantly felt sorry for him, even though she new that's the last thing Throttle would want.

"Well, we were in an explosion..." Modo added.

Charlie quickly raised her head and looked at Modo with wide eyes. "Explosion!" she exclaimed, trying to mask the alarm from her voice. She failed miserably.

"Charlie," Throttle was looking up at her, and his soft and husky voice silenced her distress. "It's okay. I'm okay."

She didn't believe him. "How many fingers do you see?" She asked as she held up a finger in front of his face and waved it slowly.

"One," Throttle replied, wondering why he felt a faint sense of deja-vu.

"He's doing better already," Vinnie remarked cheerfully.

"How much worse _was_ he?" Charlie asked, worried for her friend. She held onto his wrist and felt his pulse. His arm was warm, and his circulation was strong.

"Can you stop talking as if I wasn't here?" Throttle pleaded. He despised that he felt weak and helpless, and he hated himself for worrying his friends. His arm squirmed out of Charlie's clutch.

"Not until you quit collapsing, bro," Vinnie responded lightly with a smile. Throttle turned his head away from everyone. He couldn't bare to look into their faces anymore.

Charlie bit her lower lip and distractedly ran a hand through her thick hair, pulling it back from her face. She hated seeing the proud Freedom Fighter in such a state. "Help me get him inside," she said softly. "I knew something was wrong when I heard your bikes, but you didn't come crashing through my walls as you normally do," she commented as she assisted Modo in slowly lifting a weakened Throttle up onto his feet.

Throttle stood oddly supported by his taller friend Modo, and the smaller and slimmer human woman. He indeed felt stronger already, and the pain was definitely subsiding. He stepped forward gingerly with his friends, willing himself to be strong and sturdy, and determined to get this agonising moment over with quickly.

This was working up to be a horrible day.

* * *

Carbine soothingly stroked the head of the young woman resting on her lap, as she tried to pinpoint the exact moment in time when her day had fallen apart. On the outside, she sat serenely and her face was cooly composed, but on the inside, her thoughts were twirling rapidly, tripping over the day's events, and trying to resolve the mysteries plaguing her mind. Where had that plutarkian attack come from? Why were all her soldiers ill from an unknown ailment? Why wasn't she sick as well?

Carbine looked down as she caressed the young martian's golden-brown hair. It reminded her of Throttle, and her heart twinged. Oh gods, she missed him horribly. Sometimes, in her darkest hours, in between heavy waves of Plutarkian attacks and Sand Raider swarms, she got the impression that they would never see each other again. Not in this life.

Days like these, forlorn thoughts easily overpowered the hopeful songs of her yearning heart, logical reasoning prevailing over love and faith.

Days like these, such melancholy and self-pity also distracted a person from staying alive.

She had to focus! Push aside her longings, her regrets, and her feelings, save them for a better time and a more appropriate place. She had to get her squad out of this mess. They were going to survive. She would see to it!

Carbine surveyed the sky, expecting to see another Plutarkian fighter jet appear out of nowhere, again, and vindictively attack her small squadron of army soldiers, again. The only object she saw was the blazing crimson sun, painting the sky a flushed rose as it engulfed the horizon. The fiery scarlet mountains in the distance wavered from the heat released by the dusty-copper sand, as the very air itself seemed to blush red from the setting sun. Mars was enchanting, and no matter what happened to her beloved planet, it's beautiful was always inspiring.

Although the sunset was a vision of beauty, it was also a dire warning. The sinking sun threatened to steal away her hope as it disappeared from sight. Carbine and her soldiers were unprepared for the upcoming merciless martian night. They had lost the majority of their supplies, they were trapped on open ground, far from shelter, and her soldiers were half passed-out on the ground. Carbine was afraid to leave her defenceless troops and search for aid, but they couldn't remain here much longer. Either she had to drag them all to safety, or Carbine would have to briefly leave them as she searched for the means to set-up camp. Either way, it would be arduous and risky, but it was preferable to succumbing to death.

This was definitely summing up to be a horrible day.

* * *

"What do you mean, _they want to file a class-action lawsuit_?" Limburger put his elbows onto his desk, and lowered his head so he could massage his temples. He didn't know how to react to this news. Should he treat it as a stressful dilemma, or should he laugh at the absurdity of it all? He decided that the latter was more suiting. He raised his head and looked levelly into Greasepit's eyes. "They can't sue me," he continued, "they are wanted criminals!" He started to laugh. "Wanted criminals don't have the luxury of taking their employers to court, especially when they are being paid _under the table_." Limburger shook his head sadly, but his laughter increased in mirth. It was so hard to get good help these days.

Greasepit's eyebrows lowered in concentration as he struggled to find a response. "They... uh..." his voice faltered. He was far too nervous. He took a deep breath and started again, "You blew d'em up, boss..."

"So?" Limburger had ceased laughing, and was now growing impatient. "What's your point?"

Greasepit gulped. He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but no sound escaped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's just dat... well... tha men... Dey... hate gettin' blown up, Sir... 'Specially when it's dere own bombs."

An irritated Limburger regarded his greasy minion with contempt. "Get to your point, I don't have all day," he sputtered in annoyance. His inability to see the seriousness in Greasepit's words was genuine.

Greasepit wanted to step forward but his feet wouldn't move. He settled on fidgeting nervously instead. "Dat _was_ tha point, Sir..." his voice was becoming even more timid.

Limburger waved his hands in a dismissive gesture, and turned his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk. "Then they are all fired. Now get out."

Greasepit hesitated, then uttered nervously, "Dey already quit, boss."

Limburged slammed his hands down onto his desk, and jumped up intimidatingly from his chair. "I said **get out!**" he bellowed, startling Greasepit into jumping back with fright. The Plutarkian's murderous glare scared the skittish henchman into scrambling out of the room.

Limburger exhaled loudly as he slumped back into his chair. The Plutarkian just didn't care about his hired-muscle anymore. It wouldn't matter if they were all killed in a single swipe, the Plutarkian just wanted _one_ successful stab at the Biker Mice. Just _one_! That's all it would take to please him. It would enable him to sleep at night, it would give him a reason to wake up every morning, and it would put a smile back onto his reflection when he gazed into the mirror. In the meanwhile, it didn't matter how many bloodied bodies he left scattered in his wake, he was solely obsessed with ending the lives of the Biker Mice from Mars!

Why couldn't they just go back to Mars and leave Earth alone? Leave _him_ alone? Why did they care so much about a planet that wasn't even their own?

Limburger focused back onto the pile of paper work he had been evading for weeks. It was tax time. Or in Limburger's case, it was tax fraud time. He had both Earth _and_ Plutarkian taxes to file by the end of the month, and he was too stingy to hire any crooked accountants. The alien in-disguise grumbled as he took out his oversized calculator.

Just as Limburger reached for a pen, his scaly ears were jolted by an obnoxious beeping emanating from the wall in front of him. "Oh no..." he groaned, as he looked up at a gigantic computer display framed by dozens of tiny computer terminals, knobs, buttons and gadgets. The display screen was easily eight feet tall and twelve feet wide, and it's enormity only worsened the hideous image it currently displayed, an image Limburger dreaded more than anything else. More than Martian Mice, and even more than tax fraud investigators.

It displayed Limburger's boss, Lord Camembert, a repugnant and obese Plutarkian council member. Lord Camembert approached the view screen until it showed a warped close-up of his face. The Lord's mouth was sagging open, and a sickened Limburger could see tarter encrusted on his boss' fangs. "Limburger?" the grotesque Plutarkian called out, his eyes squinting as he searched the darkly-lit office. "I know you're there!"

Limburger chocked back his nausea, and tore off his mask, revealing the putrid and scaly alien head beneath. His face stretched into a phony smile as he marched from behind his desk and approached his fellow Plutarkian on the computer display. "Lord Camembert!" he greeted with fake amiability. "How ... _nice_ it is to..."

"Limburger!" Lord Camembert interrupted with a frown. "Are you forgetting?"

"No... please no..." Limburger's eyes closed, and his face cringed. Limburger wasn't a religious fish, but he found himself hastily praying to the Gods above that _for once_, Lord Camembert would continue their conversation _without_ forcing him to partake in their ridiculously humiliating traditions.

"I refuse to go any further without it!" Lord Camembert stepped away from the camera so that the computer display showed his entire body. Unlike Limburger, Lord Camembert didn't need any earthling disguise, and he was dressed in an expensive gold and violet robe, a traditional garment amongst their people. He stood stubbornly with folded arms, and a scolding expression on his face.

Limburger opened his eyes, relaxed his face, and stepped closer to the over-reigning figure of his superior. "Please, for once, can't we..."

"I'm waiting!" Lord Camembert yelled sternly, his eyes narrowing threateningly.

"Fine!" Limburger spat out bitterly as he walked right up to the computer screen. He turned around briskly, his rear facing his fellow Plutarkian. He bent over slightly so that his backside hit the screen. Lord Camembert mimicked Limburger's actions, so that both rumps appeared to be touching. They began to wiggle their butts in unison, never loosing contact with one another, while simultaneously reciting the official Plutarkian greeting:

"_Cheek to Cheek and Stink to Stink_...

Limburger let out a quick exasperated sigh. _ What sort of mad men founded such a ridiculous culture?_ he thought sadly to himself. _It must have a dark era... or a drunken debaucherous one... I suppose Plutark hasn't changed much..._ Limburger could barely bring himself to mumble the plutarkian greeting, but Lord Camembert's voice rang out strong and clear. Their wiggling slowed dramatically as they continued their recitation:

"_As Plutark Rules, the Galaxy Shrinks!_"

The two Plutarkians bent down even further. They held out their arms and wiggled their fingers while they briskly shook their heads. Limburger half-heartedly went through the motions, but Lord Camembert vigourously shook himself with sincere enthusiasm. They wiggled their rumps together once more, and shouted a loud, "_Wooooooooooh!_"

They both promptly jumped forward, then turned to face one another. They concluded the greeting by sticking their right hands under their left armpits, and then making two distinct farting noises.

Lord Camembert slapped his thigh and let out a short but joyous laugh. "Ahh, I find our traditions so invigorating!" he said melodiously.

"No doubt," Limburger forced out the words through clenched teeth.

"What a vibrant and enjoyable culture we have been blessed with!" Lord Camembert sighed happily.

Limburger smiled weakly, but it failed to reach his eyes, and his clenched teeth turned the facial expression into a creepy snarl.

Lord Camembert cleared his throat, and his hands smoothed away unwanted wrinkles from his robe. "Now, onto business..." the Plutarkian's smile faded, and his gaze pierced into Limburger's face. "You have been granted a great honour," he continued with gravity. "I, along with a few other members of the High Council, will be visiting Earth to investigate our progress."

Limburger gulped, and was overcome by dread. He knew where this was going, and the last thing he was feeling was "honoured"! 

"That's right, Limburger," the Plutarkian diplomat continued, reading the dire expression planted all over his subordinate's face. "You shall be hosting this year's Seminar for Earth. Every Plutarkian representative on Earth, along with important delegates including Lord Planktyn, Lord Tempist, and myself, will all be your _honoured guests_." He gravely enunciated the last few words as if he were a judge sentencing Limburger to the death penalty.

He may as well have been.

Limburger felt as though he was about to have a heart attack. A stabbing pain wracked his chest as his stress levels skyrocketed. His pulse raced to limits never-before visited. His face fell into a grimace, and his left eye twitched uncontrollably.

Limburger stumbled backward. His trembling left hand flailed behind him, searching for the support of his desk. Upon finding it's smooth oak surface, he gripped it tightly and leaned against it with all his weight, saving himself just in time from his buckling knees. He brought his right hand up to his face and pinched between his eyes, attempting to subdue the onslaught of a major migraine.

This was not happening. This couldn't be happening. This was going to be a catastrophe! This was the ghastly end of Lawrence Lactavius Limburger! He saw flashes of his head and neck draped over the royal Plutarkian guillotine, a cataclysmic finale to an illustrious life! No! He was too young to die! The universe would be a horrible place without his exquisite stink! What was he going to do?

From the gloomy darkness, a faint glimmer of hope reached out it's merciful arms and carried Limburger back into the light. Limburger took a deep breath and steadied himself. Yes. There was hope. There always was hope...

"Is something wrong, Limburger?" Lord Camembert smirked. Limburger looked back at the computer display, and did his best to wipe the hatred off his face. His boss new very well that of all the Plutarkians stationed on Earth, Limburger was having the most difficulty operating business. Instead of blaming the Biker Mice, Limburger was held responsible, and resented for his failures. Limburger was positive that Lord Camembert was counting on the Seminar being a disaster, so that he would have an undebatable reason to throw Limburger into a plutarkian prison. He had probably already chosen a permanent replacement for Limburger's position.

There wasn't a doubt in Limburger's mind that this was another of the Lord's conspiracies, but this time he would prove Camembert wrong! He would prove his worth to the High Council! He would demonstrate that he was more than capable of handling a simple rodent infestation! He would host the most successful seminar Earth had ever known! He would upstage every other plutarkian representative, and he would impress the High Council members until they were rendered speechless!

Most importantly, he would deal with the Biker Mice _once and for all! _ He was going to prepare a little "entertainment" for the seminar. He had a plan! A brilliant plan! A marvellous plan! The most promising plan he had ever conceived, and it was all thanks to _Project Venom_.

"Nothing is wrong, your Lordship," Limburger answered with a mischievous smile, "and it is indeed _an honour_ to host this year's Seminar!" Limburger chuckled wickedly under his breath, and his eyes stared off into a far-distant vision that only he could see.

The Biker Mice from Mars _would_ fall, even if he had to kill every single one of his employees in the process! Those vexing rodents were going to meet their gruesome demise! Limburger would see to it _personally_.

To Be Continued...

* * *

How am I doing? My writing isn't getting worse, I hope!

Lots of rock'n'riding action coming up soon!

Please review! )


	4. Unravelling Concerns

Many heartfelt **_Thank You's_** go out to the reviewers! Its -all- about the reviewers!

**Laurenke1:** You were my first reviewer after I returned from the dead and started updating on again, and I appreciate your commentary sooo much!

**fenestrae:** I know, Throttle is too cute to dent! I will do my best to not leave any ugly scars on Throttle. ) Also, don't apologise for being on a field trip, hehe! I hope you had fun, though!

**Windshale:** thanks for you review! I love writing Limburger! I've been following your lovely stories diligently, btw.

**FairDrea:** Your kind and dear words make me blush! I'm not quite a master of description yet, I've just been working hard on that aspect of writing. I agree, descriptions are often underrated ( however, it's also easy to write too much description, which is boring. I try to spread out the descriptions, as to not bombard my readers... still plenty of room for improvement! Let me know how I do!

**Intrepidwarriors:** thank you! I'm glad you found my little fic, I hope you find the time to read on!

* * *

. 

**Dark Times - Saga: Part 1**

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own any intellectual property taken from "Biker Mice from Mars" the television series. This story is NOT for profit. The story belongs to the author, but it may be referenced for more NON profit usage.

I do NOT own discovery channel. Or the universe. Or Mars. I just reference it for NON profit usage.

Ah, gotta love that ugly word, usage.

* * *

. 

**Dark Times - Saga**

The Biker Mice's lives are threatened when Plutark tests it's latest weapon, ready to defeat Mars once and for all.

**Chapter 3 - Unravelling Concerns**

Change slowly befalls one of the Biker Mice. Carbine and her troops fall into further danger. Throttle gets a shower scene!

* * *

. 

_Swiftly and silently,_ he lectured himself inwardly.

He dared not even take a breath. He slowly crept onward with tensed muscles, moving with the stealth and precision of an experienced warrior. His movements were fluid and predatory as he inched toward his objective. His destination: _the door._ His footsteps fell soundlessly onto the concrete floor, like the noiseless creeping of a mouse.

Of course, he _was_ a mouse. A Martian Mouse. Yet, his species wasn't gifted with the innate ability to slink softly. Most Martian Mice were as clumsy and loud as the clamor of pots and pans. However, _this_ Martian was different. He was a high-ranking Freedom Fighter! His stealth was unsurpassed by his peers. Years of battle experience had sculpted him into an exemplary adversary, graced with the talents of a natural-born leader. Nothing could prevent him from attaining this goal. He merely had to sneak past...

A feminine voice cleared its throat from behind, then said, "Throttle, you weren't trying to sneak off, were you?"

Throttle froze in mid-step. Apparently, sneaking by Charlie-girl was a greater challenge than sneaking past plutarkian snipers. At least Throttle had managed to sneak past those fish-faced snipers on a fair number of occasions. Had living with the famous---or infamous---Biker Mice from Mars turn Charlie into a soldier with a sixth sense? Was the human woman's skills and senses honed, her instincts enriched?

Years of learning to deal with the mice's antics, immaturity, bloated egos, and male chauvinism probably influenced Charlie more than anything else. It had been more effective than any training the mice could have offered. The three mice perpetually tried her patience, and she knew them far too well.

Throttle gave the door a despairing last glance, then sadly let out his held breath. He had been so close to achieving his goal! So close to escaping into the blissful freedom awaiting outdoors. He felt so caged, and even more defeated. Why was it so hard to be alone with one's thoughts, these days?

Throttle turned around slowly and gave the human a sheepish grin. "Hey, Charlie-girl... I was just..."

Charlie stood with one hand on her hip, and her chin held up sternly. Her beaming eyes looked right through Throttle's attempt to hide his true intentions. She waited expectantly, eager to hear Throttle's excuse. Despite her strict exterior, it was obvious that she was greatly entertained by the mouse's reaction.

Throttle found himself clearing his voice before resuming his explanation, "...I was just... going upstairs. I heard Modo finish with the washroom, so..."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, and the corners of her mouth twitched, threatening to break out into an amused smile. She was deriving great satisfaction from the warrior's squirms. She also found it hilarious that her glare could produce such a reaction from the leader of the renown Biker Mice from Mars. She struggled to keep a small frown on her face.

Throttle's eyes drifted to the floor, and his feet fidgeted uncomfortably as he continued, "... I thought I'd go have a shower myself..." Throttle didn't enjoy stretching the truth. He was just so incredibly desperate to escape the smothering care of Charlie and his bros. It was touching to see how much they cared, but today he couldn't handle it. He needed to be alone, but such a simple request seemed impossible.

He cast an annoyed eye on the bucket and washcloth that had been handed to him earlier. It sat deserted by the couch, just where he had left it. He was still covered in soil from head to foot; even the insides of his boots had manage to pick up some debris during incident at the warehouse. Throttle had tried to sponge off the dust and matted blood from his fur, but it was too tedious a task. Not to mention the indignation he felt when Charlie refused to let him out of her sight.

Charlie nodded slowly. "I see," she spoke deliberately, "you mean, the washroom at the top of _those_ stairs?" She pointed behind her at a staircase, located in the opposite direction of which Throttle heading.

The tan mouse managed a short and weak chuckle. "Yeah, he replied, those stairs..."

Throttle heard Vinnie snicker from the other side of the room. He was holding a bottle of peroxide in one hand, and gauze in the other, waiting for Charlie to return and finish cleaning the scrapes on his back. Vinnie had been the first to have a shower, and his spotless white fur gleaned delightfully, as if to further mock Throttle. The tan mouse glowered at Vinnie, but that only added to the albino's amusement.

Charlie was giggling herself, unable to further resist the beguiling hilarity. "You know, Throttle," she remarked, slightly out of breath from her laughter, "if you really want to get washed-up upstairs, I'm sure Modo can bathe you..."

Throttle's eyes widened upon hearing her words, and his fieldspecs lowered on his snout. His jaw gaped open, and his face stretched in horror. He waved his hands defensively in front of him, and took an involuntary step backward. "No! ...no, no thanks!" he blurted out. His head shook away the disturbing mental imagery. He regained his composure, and uttered a short nervous laugh.

Throttle then sighed, and looked back at the couch. His shoulders sank, along with his spirit. "I guess I'll give the... _bucket_ another shot." He glared at the soapy water and sponge, as if suspicious of its intentions.

Charlie bit her lip as she tried to subdue further laughter. She felt almost giddy. With the stressful morning melting away, she was left with an intoxicating feeling of relief, as Throttle recovered miraculously before her eyes. An hour earlier, she had been worriedly examining the wounded Martian for serious injuries, searching for the source of his physical distress. He had been so weak and dazed... Tensions had been high, and everyone restless. Vinnie and Modo had hovered nearby, badgering Throttle and Charlie with concerned questions, wondering how the wounded mouse was feeling, if he needed anything, if Charlie needed any help... With frayed nerves, the human mechanic had to keep shooing and shoving them away. Throughout the ordeal, Throttle had looked visibly overwhelmed by the smothering attention. He had seemed prepared to give away his soul in return for a method of escape.

Now when Charlie looked at him, he bore only a few scrapes and bruises. She noticed his strength was recovering, along with his mischievousness. Compared to humans, martian bodies were more resilient, and healed at an accelerated pace. Still, Charlie was wary; there was a shadow of distress haunting Throttle's facial expressions. The ghost of fear residing in his eyes. Defeat echoing in his voice. Disturbed angst lingering in his unhurried and lethargic movements. Something was wrong, and until Charlie figured out what it was, she wanted to keep him close-by. The mice had done so much for her, they had rescued her on countless occasions, and had liberated her city from numerous disasters. The least she could do was offer them protection in her own caring way.

Charlie watched Throttle attentively while he sauntered back to the couch, and flopped himself down. Ignoring the bucket, he leaned his head to rest on the back of his seat. He let out a heavy sigh, and sat unmoving. _Plotting his next escape attempt, no doubt,_ Charlie thought to herself with a fond smile.

Charlie had resumed disinfecting Vinnie's scrapes, when the sound of heavy footsteps and creaking stairs stole her attention. "Ah, Modo," she said sweetly, when she saw the giant grey mouse stroll into the room. His fur was wet and stuck together comically, each matted lock of fur angling randomly in different directions. The scent of wet of fur wafted into the room. "Perhaps you could keep an eye on Houdini while I tend to Vinnie?" She didn't expect him to understand her joke, but she said it anyway.

Modo stopped dead in his tracks and looked at her with confusion. "Dini? Who's Dini?" His brow lowered, and he scratched his head with his fleshy left hand. Charlie could almost see the gears turning and clicking in his head.

Throttle didn't budge from his restful pose, but he did offer a lazy reply, "Houdini was an earthling escape artist." His voice lacked energy, and barely displayed his interest. "Lived in the 19th century, and is supposed to be the most famous magician ever to walk the Earth."

Charlie forgot about the gauze in her hand, and let it fall abandoned to the floor. Modo ceased scratching his head, and his hand dropped limply to his side. Even Vinnie did a double take. Three surprised heads turned in unison to look at Throttle questioningly.

Throttle raised his head to investigate the source of the sudden quiet that had claimed the garage. Discovering that he was the target of three scrutinising looks, his cheeks blushed deeply beneath his golden fur. "Uhhh," his voice dripped with self-conscious embarrassment, "I watch the Discovery Channel when no one else is around..."

Charlie's emerald eyes sparkled with amusement. She knew Throttle was intelligent, but she hadn't known the extent of his thirst for knowledge. She gave him an impressed nod, openly pleased by his interest in her planet's history and culture.

Modo chuckled and shook his head. He went to join Throttle on the couch, and sat with his arms folded. He gave Throttle an encouraging look, but the tan leader just let his head fall back onto the couch. Modo wondered if Throttle would ever clean the matted blood and filth from his fur.

Vinnie resumed his snickering, but failed to drag a response from Throttle. "You're such a nerd, bro," he teased the golden-brown mouse, watching his bro intently, and determined to get a rise out of him. "What else do you..." he tried to continue, but was interrupted by a searing pain on his back. "Yowww!" he squealed, as he twitched and wiggled away from Charlie's touch. He twisted his upper body around to look at her accusingly with his large puppy eyes. A cute pout formed on his lips, and his head even tilted to one side, reminding Charlie of a dog she owned as a child. "Take it easy, Charlie-girl," Vinnie pleaded, "that stung!"

Charlie smiled innocently, but her eyes glowed with mischief, and her head was held high with victory. "I'm sorry, Hotshot, did I use too much disinfectant?" Her voice utterly lacked sympathy, and her apology was hollow. Vinnie's eyes narrowed with distrust, but Charlie didn't give him a chance to respond. She spun his shoulders back around, forcing him to expose his back to her again.

Modo watched the interaction with interest, and chortled with amusement. Throttle didn't moved, but he did allow himself a brief chuckle. Too brief. Despite his seemingly reposeful demeanour, Throttle was unsettled. His eyes were wide as they stared up at the beige ceiling. It was littered with cracks and dents, each imperfection holding a memory captive. Throttle could identify the origin of each damaged area, each memory clear and crisp in his mind, as if they had occurred only yesterday. That long and shallow groove to his right was the product of a frustrated Modo, driven crazy by the uselessness of a broken leg... The deep dent in the centre was the result of one of Vinnie's temper tantrums, after he had found his tires slashed...

So many memories were associated with this garage. So many reminders of the time spent away from Mars. Throttle's eyes drifted out of focus. He imagined that he saw through the ceiling, that he was gazing at the afternoon sky that lay above, laden with grey clouds that carried promises of sweet spring rain. Throttle's thoughts gravitated past the clouds, soaring through the air until he breached the atmosphere. He floated weightlessly in space. His hands could reach out and brush the glimmering stars with his fingertips. His feet could stretch out and walk on the moon. The blue-green planet beneath cradled his body, as if it were his bed. The starry expanse displayed itself before him, but he was only interested in one tiny detail. One shimmering red freckle, looking so small and fragile as it twinkled in his eyes. It seemed so strangely laced with abating familiarity, like a forgotten dream. He could not reach it; it was infinitely beyond his grasp. He could only remain where he was, and guard the planet Earth bellow.

Throttle sighed deeply and wondered what was happening on that twinkling red dot, his beloved home planet, Mars.

* * *

. 

"_Get down!_" Carbine shouted urgently. Vecta stood beside her, the cream-coloured martian with the golden hair that reminded her of Throttle. Carbine grabbed Vecta by the waist, and flattened them both onto the rocky sand. She heard the subtle thumps of other martians following her example. Silver streaks sliced through the air above them like a meteor shower, scarcely missing the martians stretched out on the russet terrain.

The laser fire was unmistakably plutarkian.

Carbine grunted as she rolled onto her back and fired her automatic weapon. The attackers were scattered amongst the base of a rocky mountain. Carbine had been leading her soldiers there for shelter, but darkness was falling, visibility was low, and her soldiers were exhausted. No one saw the danger until they had already walked into the mouth of the beast.

Carbine ceased firing and rolled herself toward a nearby rock, closely followed by Vecta. Around them, the other martians were firing their weapons and quickly seeking their own shelter. Carbine heedfully peaked her head from behind the safety of the rock, and shot her trusted martian gun toward the enemy soldiers. The exchange of weapons fire was so heavy in the air, that a small twitch could leave Carbine fatally wounded. Even the friendly fire of her squadron was daunting.

Despite the dissipating light in the twilight sky, she could see all the positions of the attacking enemy soldiers. With the exception of sniper's attire, plutarkian uniforms were coloured a bright royal blue, outlined with vibrant violet stripes, and garnished with forest-green capes. They preferred parading themselves over blending tactfully with the terrain. Carbine often wondered how the Plutarkians had earned themselves a reputation for cunningness. The martian soldiers had one advantage: they were clothed in a camouflage of dark beige, splattered with reddish-tan and tawny spots. In the darkness, the earthy camouflage proved even more effective.

Carbine prayed that there were no plutarkian snipers. Those maggots were too unpredictable. They would lay in waiting until the martians felt comfortable, letting perfect shots and opportunities slip by, as if gaining the martians' trust. Then, without warning, they would fire a series of fatal blows within a blink of an eye.

Carbine's submachine gun finally struck its target in the chest, and a lifeless Plutarkian toppled. Carbine smiled proudly, but her small victory was cut short when she heard Vecta gasp painfully beside her. Carbine turned and saw the martian woman pressed up against the rock, clutching her right arm tightly. Crimson drops slipped between her fingers, joining the small scarlet streams trickling down her arm. Vecta smiled reassuringly and lifted her wounded arm, as if to signal that she wasn't badly wounded. Carbine cursed under her breath, and ripped a strip from her tank top, exposing a taunt midsection covered in soft grey fur. Carbine had already lost her black bandanna to another soldier's wounds. If this continued, she would soon find herself fighting in the nude.

Carbine secured the strip tightly around Vecta's arm, and the cream-furred woman bit her lower lip. The rest of her face was smooth, and one could hardly tell that she was in pain. She was an elegant beauty, with long golden hair pulled back into a wavy ponytail. Her fur coat was flawlessly smooth, and her sultry figure caught the attention of every appraising male eye she met. Occasionally women and enemy soldiers also gave her lustful glances. On the outside, Vecta was a gorgeous goddess, but on the inside, she was a respected and hardened warrior. A corporal in the army, she was stationed as Carbine's right-hand. She was a stealthy and deadly assassin, and had saved Carbine's life on many occasions.

The two female soldiers turned to look back to rocky ridge, just in time to watch another Plutarkian fall. Carbine saw an opening in their positions. She quickly signalled to her troops, using army hand gestures to inform them of her intentions. She ensured that they knew to advance on her signal. The sergeant looked upon her soldiers approvingly. Not even an hour earlier, they had been drifting in and out of consciousness, collapsing and mumbling incoherently. Since then, they had pulled themselves together, and bravely threw themselves into the heat of the battle. It was as though they had never been ill. While these mysteries remained unsolved, there was no time for contemplation. Afterall, she wasn't a detective, she was an army sergeant trapped in crossfire.

Carbine tapped Vecta's shoulder, and crawled out from the safety of the small boulder. Her and Vecta slithered forward quickly, scrapping painfully against the rocky terrain. They could hear martian weaponry increasing with fervent determination, and they felt safe under the provided cover fire.

They reached the base of the rocky ridge and crouched, safely hidden between the jagged protruding rocks. Carbine flicked the pin from her only grenade, waited a moment, then thrust it into the mountainous range. Considering the amount of Plutarkians who remained standing, a single grenade could put a favourable dent into their ranks. The two martian woman covered their heads protectively with their arms. The grenade exploded loudly, pulverising rock, throwing plutarkian bodies, disabling enemy soldiers, and leaving a small crater in the mountainside. This ambush now belonged to the martians!

Carbine heard the rest of her squadron charge forward, firing their weapons viciously. She leapt up with Vecta and shot down a few surprised Plutarkians. From part-way up the mountain, an enemy soldier dropped down, landing in front of Carbine. She struck the Fish's face with the blunt side of her submachine gun, and jumped backward. She aimed her weapon, but before she fired a single shot, a distinct whipping sound zipped through the air between Carbine and her assailant. A large bullet struck the ground at her feet, in the spot where she had just stood.

The sound made by the bullet was barely audible, overpowered by the fierce battle at hand. However, her martian ears were attuned to the sound, like a musician picking out a flat note from an entire orchestra. When Carbine heard the bullet racing through the air, her heart froze, her breath caught, and she momentarily forgot everything else. Her assailant, the battle... nothing existed but her ears, and that sound.

Carbine swore under her breath. There was a sniper.

Carbine fired her weapon quickly, and the plutarkian soldier in front of her collapsed. She ducked, hoping that a bulging rock would block the sniper's scope of vision. She couldn't see Vecta anywhere, but she did notice two martian bodies lying with deadly stillness, on the open plain.

Carbine growled angrily and flung herself over the jagged protruding rocks. She zigzagged and sprinted to the base of a steep slope, leaping over any obstacles in her path. She started hefting herself up the mountainside, her gloved hands gripping the rocks easily, and her powerful muscles springing her body upward at an incredible pace. As she climbed, a few dislodged pebbles fell from above and landed onto her face. The sniper had given away his position! It motivated her to quicken her pace, adding to the turmoil of passionate rage stirring through her system.

She reached a flat ridge jutting out of the huge rocky formations. This was surely the sniper's position, stationed here within the shadows. She quickly grabbed the ridge with her left hand, and flung herself up. She landed gracefully, her weapon already aimed at the sniper's shadowy figure. She almost pulled the trigger, but the ghostly starlight reflected off the sniper's white fur, and Carbine caught a glimpse of his face...

The sniper was a martian mouse! A Freedom Fighter! His fur rippled with flexed muscles, and his soft facial tissue twitched, proving that he wasn't wearing any mask or disguise. His snout was also small enough to rule him out as a Rat. Carbine's stomach somersaulted with the realisation that she had almost killed one of her own people.

The sniper looked at her calmly, his sniper rifle hanging relaxed at his side. He had a small close-range pistol tucked into his belt, Freedom-Fighter issue. The sniper's tranquil stance seemed to forgive Carbine for her brash actions. She cursed internally, but kept her weapon trained on him, as if expecting to see molting fur, shedding and revealing a scaly amphibian underneath. Perhaps the sniper wasn't actually firing at her, but trying to strike the pouncing Plutarkian instead? Yes, that made sense. The male mouse's head leaned to one side, and he looked at her quizzically. Carbine reluctantly lowered her gun, and whispered in her native language, "_What are you doing here? I didn't know Stoker had positioned any freedom fighters in this area!_"

"_I happened to be in the neighbourhood,_" the sniper responded in his baritone voice. He spoke friendly, and with such sincere gentleness that Carbine released her wary tensions. She let her eyes peel away from him. She no longer deemed him a threat. Besides, in the entire history of Martian Mice, not a single one of them had defected.

Carbine looked around hurriedly. She saw her troops surround the remaining Plutarkians. All weapons suddenly ceased firing, and a surprised gurgle echoed up to Carbine's ears, as the last enemy soldier was tackled to the ground. She turned her body slightly, so that she could better survey the remnants of the battle. Her soldiers began sweeping the area. Carbine trusted that her squadron would soon eliminate any remaining dormant threat.

Carbine continued talking to the mouse while she observed the scene bellow, "_I'm assuming you climbed up here to..._" Carbine looked back at the Freedom Fighter, and cut herself off with a sharp intake of air.

The treacherous Freedom Fighter was smiling evilly. His short-range pistol was aimed at her chest.

With a deep grimace, Carbine twisted her body and dove to the side, in a vain attempt to evade the imminent fire. She snapped her weapon back in front of her.

She was too late.

A single laser blast resounded in her ears, echoing off the mountainside and stealing away into the night. The laser ripped through Carbine's flesh. She fell backward in pain, and her vision was consumed by darkness.

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_Alone, at last._

The serenely painted walls of ocean blues and greens attempted to calm Throttle's tensions. The cascading hot water soothingly caressed his fur, while the powerful shower head massaged and penetrated the tight knots in his muscles. The steam embraced his body and flowed into his lungs, rendering him light-headed. This washroom was his fortress of solitude, reigned only by his thoughts. Although it was just a temporary freedom, it was more than he had been granted all afternoon. He was alone, free of distraction, and isolated from any unwanted attention. Free from the heavy weight of everyone's watchful eyes.

Throttle usually looked forward to showers. It was his favourite moment of the day, and it cleared his mind of polluting thoughts and emotions. Since arriving on Earth, he had come up with his best ideas while in the shower. He had solved the most complicated of mysteries. The shower was a wondrous invention, and he wished he could have had them around during the war, back on Mars.

Throttle stretched, and lifted his face upward, wishing the streaming water could wash away his cares. The sensation of water sweeping across his antennas was exhilarating, and unlike anything he had experienced on Mars. It was almost enough to distract him from his tortuous thoughts. Almost.

Throttle wanted to relax, but there was so much bothering him. His mind was in chaos, and he was haunted by his memories of the warehouse. Karbunkle's face was tormenting him, laughing at his gullibility, and ridiculing his weakness. When Throttle closed his eyes, he saw flashes of Karbunkle's face towering over him. Despite the intense heat enveloping his body, shivers crept up and down his spine, while his troubled thoughts raced.

Dried blood and dirt slipped off his fur, tainting the water brown as it streamed down his wide muscular chest. He idly watched brown water coil down his trim waist, weaving its way down his lean legs. The water reopened the scabs on his arms, but he didn't notice. His eyes were mesmerised by the streams of liquid, his ears serenaded by the descending water, and his thoughts absorbed in the far-distant corners of his mind.

He felt different. Ever since visiting Limburger's warehouse, he felt... altered. Something was changing inside of him. He couldn't describe it, nor could he identify it. Something was just... different. Throttle's eyes closed as a wave of nausea swept over him. Karbunkle _had_ done something to him. Throttle didn't want to remember, but it was necessary. The scientist had held something in his hand, some sort of needle... or container... Throttle leaned against the wall of the shower, and groaned quietly. What should he do? He couldn't bring himself to tell anyone. He wasn't entirely sure why, he only knew that no one could discover what had happened.

He needed to escape tonight, to be far away from his friends. He needed more time to think. Perhaps a good solo ride would cheer him up, or a nice brawl. Maybe a trip to the lake would offer the peace he sought. He just needed to escape.

Throttle grabbed a bottle of "Canine Shampoo." Charlie had bought it from a pet supplies store, and it cleaned fur beautifully. He lathered his body, his hands working slowly as he spread the soap on his chest. Before smearing shampoo onto his arms, he examined them closely. They were stained crimson and fresh blood seeped through the broken skin. There was a mess of scratches from where the flung chair had torn at his flesh, but the damage was very shallow. It would heal well, and leave no scar. Other than the scrapes on his arms, there were no other markings on his body. No puncture marks, no suspicious wounds. Nothing. Throttle sighed in frustration. He quickly finished lathering up, and rinsed himself off.

Without warning, the world spun around him, as he was suddenly seized by a spell of weakness. He leaned once more against the wall. He was succumbing to the asphyxiating steam, because he still hadn't regained all his strength. Maybe Charlie was right to worry. She always was right, even when he thought she was overreacting.

He turned off the water, and pulled back the pastel shower curtain, releasing the constricting steam from its chamber. He sat on the edge of the porcelain bathtub, breathing deeply. He watched the steam with keen fascination as it bellowed and swirled off his soaked fur. He waved an arm in front of him, and watched the ghostly white flames twirl and embrace his limb. He still hadn't fully adjusted to living on a planet brimming with water. It was an exotic experience, and he was as captivated as a child. His eyes followed a thick cloud of steam as if drifted to an opaque window. A sly grin formed on his face. Of course, the window! That was his escape!

As he dried himself off, he mumbled under his breath, completely unaware that he was speaking. It was almost an unconscious act, as if he wasn't speaking himself, but someone else was borrowing his mouth. In a way, it _was_ someone else. He kept repeating two words: "No more. No more. No more. No more... "

To Be Continued...

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Thanks for reading! please review, its what makes the world go round!

Yay new chapter! I took a little longer with this chapter, because I thought it was too weak. I had to fix it up before posting it! Even still, I think its a little weak. Not as fast-paced as I want.

Im striving to update frequently. I also dont have an editor or proof-reader, so thats another couple of days to add on before each chapter release. (

I hope to make Part 2 a crossover story! I hope you all like crossovers!


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